Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  And then there were another five yards of banding, fringes of alternating 'pearls' and 'diamonds,' two each, hanging down. She would sew these these in four rows on the dress, on the collar, the chest, the thigh and the hem. And the crowning glory, the three-inch pink heart-shaped rhinestone buckle. She would sew it where a buckle should be. She had considered a row of them all around the waist of the dress, but they cost £4.99 each, and she wasn't made of money. One would have to do.

  Then there were the iron-on sequin appliqués. After a few hours on the sewing machine, she would move to the ironing board. At the Top Yer Trolly, she had grabbed huge handfuls of two and a half inch sparkly green cloth stars, padded, that she would improve the gown with, a hundred or more, and they had been out of green hearts, so Fionnuala snatched up the turquoise ones, along with two handfuls of sparkly red bows. Her hand had hovered uncertainly over the frogs and the rainbows, but she was determined the gown be restrained and classy. She had scooped up seventy pink pearl-like Apostles' crosses instead. She still remembered from the Catechism of her youth that the bumps at each of the arms represented the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. She would have love and religion together in one gown. She had trembled with excitement as she walked to the till with her basket. And then the bag had sat in the cupboard under the stairs for weeks.

  Pride filling her now, Fionnuala smiled as the sewing machine whizzed away, her fingers surprisingly nimble considering the size of them and the alcohol in their corpuscles, though when one took into account the speed and the sharpness of the needle shooting up and down between the feed dogs and the bobbin, the nimbleness was perhaps not surprising and only a matter of self-preservation. She couldn't remember what designer name Zoë had yodeled as she ripped the dress from the packaging, someone foreign and strange, but as Zoë had cooed and preened over the gown, and blathered on and on about the simplicity and class and clean straight lines of it, and Dymphna had nodded and smiled and marveled at her side, running her fingers up and down the length of it, Fionnuala had been confused. “An off the shoulder mermaid gown,” Zoë had instructed them, but to Fionnuala it looked like a plain white sack. A white sack of purest chiffon, marvelous to the touch, to be sure, but a sack nevertheless.

  “Where,” Fionnuala had demanded, brow furrowed and feeling a bit betrayed, “does the color of the wedding be in that gown, I'd like to know? Ye kept banging on and on months ago about the color and how it was meant to be in every item! Hours it took us to come up with the green, and not just any green, but the specific color of green, Brookside Moss, I still recall it was called. And then ye present me with this...white shite! Lovely white shite, aye, and dead dear, I've no doubt, but white nevertheless!”

  She had glared accusingly across the yards of stark virginal chiffon into the woman's Burberry frames.

  Zoë had shrugged.

  “Sometimes less is more, Mrs. Flood.”

  “There's nothing to that frock! Mind ye showed me all them magazines? Yer mood board? Frills and ruffles and I don't know what. That there looks like a sleeping gown!”

  “Less is more.”

  “It needs to be altered. I need to alter it.”

  “There's no need to alter it. The tailors made it to order, they measured every bit of her. They took very precise measurements.”

  “Aye, Mammy, I can attest to that. Hours, I was there while themmuns went over every inch of me body with a tape measure, like.”

  “No, not alter. I don't mean alter. I mean I need to add to it. Add a wee bit of color to it. For the sake of yer mood board.”

  “Less is more.”

  “Would ye stop parroting on about less being more? Gimme that frock here!”

  And then, when they seemed to be on the verge of a tug of war, on the verge of treating the fancy café like the January sales at the Top Yer Trolly, something had changed in Zoë's face, and she turned to Dymphna.

  “It's your gown, darling. No use us sniping over it. What would you like?”

  “I love it, I really do,” Dymphna had said. “And I thank ye so much getting me the best of the best. Wile lovely to the touch, so it is. I...I...I must agree with Mammy, but. It's not got anything special about it. No spice or pizzazza or whatever ye call it. It's just white.”

  But Zoë wouldn't let the veil out of her claws and although Fionnuala's imagination was doing somersaults over how she might improve that, she let the woman keep it. The dress would far outshine the veil.

  As Fionnuala sewed away, and then finished, and then as she pulled out the ironing board and began to iron on the stars and the hearts and the bows and the crosses, her mind clicked away. Maybe it was the whiskey, but she was feeling bad, worse, then even worse as her creation grew more and more marvelous.

  “Am I that terrible,” she thought to herself, “that me own son wants to flee from me as soon as he can?”

  Dymphna had also asked if Fionnuala had heard from her auntie Ursula, if she had RSVP'd, and wondered why she wouldn't at least send a card or a note or an email. Fionnuala was feeling bad about Ursula, about the puppet show she had put on the other day, she felt bad demanding to Dymphna two months ago she would take all the invites to the post office and get them stamped and sent off, bad about finding Ursula's invitation in the pile, ripping it up and stomping on the pieces there beside the foreign currency window. She was feeling bad about her own mortality, the mysterious protein flowing in her urine and what it might be doing there, feeling bad about drinking all Paddy's whiskey, and feeling bad there wasn't more to drink. She felt bad that the wedding cake wasn't going to be the marvel she had promised Zoë it would be.

  She had tried to raise the money, she really had. All her scams at the Amelia Earhart Center, and her last desperate scam with Mrs. McDaid were proof of that. But as time had gone by and the extra money trickled in, well, she kept realizing she'd need more and more, especially as she had conjured up more things that were needed for the special day.

  She was horrified to see she had scorched the gown slightly in two places, but she would cluster some stars in those areas, like mini green milky ways, and nobody would see the brown marks.

  She needed thousands of pounds, but had squirrel away barely three hundred. Everyone in the family thought she was saving the money for the cake, but she could have easily placed the £300 as a deposit at the baker's weeks ago. It should've been ordered at least a month ago. But this money, and the money Mrs. McDaid should have given her, was supposed to pay for the things Fionnuala had secretly been planning for, things to make her look better for the wedding, and not like her exercise of old with the sofa cushions on the floor, or cutting off her ponytails and dying them brown. She had wanted to lift her head high on the wedding day, literally. She had pored over brochures for a face lift, liposuction and maybe even a vaginal rejuvenation. It would be the best revenge ever, she had thought when she started to scam the money all those weeks ago, to outshine her own daughter on her wedding day, and the Protestant bitch to boot. Marching proudly down the aisle behind her Protestant-loving harlot daughter, her own tight face, trim waist and even tighter lady's arena, the questions at the reception from the unknown Riddell guests if she were Dymphna's sister. But the vaginoplasty alone, including anesthesia and surgical facility fee, cost £9000. It was useless. She'd have to reign in her dreams. There was sale on irregular Spanx at the Top Yer Trolly. And she had her special walking instructions, courtesy of How To Be A Lady. That would have to do.

  And now there were only two days left to the wedding and there was still no cake. £300 would buy her nothing, and there wasn't enough time anyway. She would just have Padraig and Siofra make it. Seamus could help too. And her mammy. The old woman didn't do much of anything, Fionnuala thought.

  The door clattered open, then slammed shut. Fionnuala tensed over the iron. But it was only Lorcan, not the coppers, swinging into the kitchen, a comforting sight with his muscles and youth and handsome face and blue eyes. He made Fionnuala feel more at eas
e than any amount of whiskey could. He was whistling some pop song of the day.

  “Right, Mam?” he asked, wrenching open the door of the fridge and poking his nose in. Disappointed at what he saw there, he closed the door and finally gave her a real look. “What's up with ye? Terrible put out, ye look. Ye've not had another of them attacks of yers, have ye?”

  Fionnuala was affronted. Those attacks of hers! As if she had them thrice daily!

  “Och, Lorcan,” she sighed into the shiny iron-ons as she realized she'd have to make another appointment with Dr. Chandrapore and do the urine sample again. “Naw, not that. Ye wouldn't believe the day I've had, but. I—No, let's just let it lie. I'll start roaring out of me if I try to talk about it.”

  “Is that wer Dymphna's wedding frock?”

  “Aye. Almost done.” She tugged it off the ironing board and held it up for him to see. The stars and bows and hearts and crosses sparkled under the strip lighting of the kitchen. The fringes jangled from the arms. The heart buckle shone.

  “Looks grand. Effin epic! Ye've got hands of magic at that sewing machine, Mammy, and the iron as well. Ye shoulda been a designer, you.”

  “Och, the things ye say! Ye've me face pure red, son! In two days, the wedding'll be. I wish I could buy ye a special suit for yerself, but ye know the dosh be's tight. I'm sorry about that, love. Sure, ye've that suit ye wore for yer court appearances to wear, anyroad.”

  At the mention of the wedding and his being there, he seemed unable to meet her eye. She wondered about that.

  “Two days, ye say, aye?”

  “I wonder if ye could help me out, give me some of yer advice. That Zoë Riddell kept banging on about the designer of the frock, and I was wondering...I don't see her name anywhere, no label or what have ye. I think maybe it was Vera Wong. Does that sound right?”

  “I don't know about designers, Mam.”

  “Anyroad, I was wondering...what do ye think if I spell out in big letters on the back, V-E-R-A on the left shoulder, W-O-N-G on the right? Would that look nice, do ye think? I haven't the letters bought yet, but I was wondering if I should take a trip down the town to get em. If ye think it be's a good idea?”

  “Mm. Aye, ye've loads of marvelous ideas, Mammy. That, but, sounds a bit like a football jersey. And ye don't want anyone at the church thinking wer Dymphna be's called Wong, do ye?”

  “Naw, ye're right there, son,” Fionnuala agreed. But still, as she stood there holding the gown out like that, her brain cells continued to trundle. D-Y-M-P-H-N-A on one shoulder, F-L-O-O-D on the other? But the girl would be going up the aisle as Dymphna Flood, and coming back down it as Dymphna Riddell, and that confused Fionnuala. She'd have to leave the back be. She placed the gown back on the ironing board.

  “Anyroad, Mam, I was—”

  They jumped as the door clattered open again and Padraig, Siofra and Seamus stomped in from school. They were surprised to see their mother there. One of them, she didn't know who, wanted to know why she was home early but Fionnuala just scowled and hid behind the steam from the hissing iron.

  Padraig asked, “What's for wer tea?” Tea, dinner.

  “Baked beans on toast.”

  “Can we not have some meat?” Siofra asked.

  “Aye, Mammy, please!” Seamus said, clapping.

  “It's been weeks, like!” Padraig complained.

  “Naw, youse cannot! Youse ungrateful cunts!” She would've slapped them all but she didn't want to scorch the gown again. And she felt some satisfaction as she intoned like a Lady, “Less is more, have youse wanes not heard?!”

  Lorcan spoke up, “Mammy, how about that ham hock? Months, it's been sitting in the freezer.”

  She softened to make him stay, “For me son, anything,” as if a ham hock would make him change his mind. That's how desperate she was.

  “I'm warning ye mammy,” Lorcan said as the kids jumped up and down around him and clapped and cheered, “it's not gonny make me stay. Ta, but, Mam.”

  Her head throbbed.

  “Take that ham hock outta the freezer for me, Padraig,” Fionnuala instructed, though Lorcan was closer to the fridge. “And defrost it in the microwave for yer mammy so's I can boil it. Two hours, it'll take. Can youse wanes keep yer hunger at bay that long? We've to wait for yer daddy and yer granny to get home, anyroad.”

  “How am I meant to defrost it?” Padraig whined. “I've never done it before.”

  “Ye see I'm busy so I kyanny do it meself!”

  “I'll show ye,” Siofra said.

  Fionnuala thought...she'd have to watch that one, she was showing intelligence beyond her years.

  “And then I want youse to go to the Sav-U-Mor and get me some things for the wedding cake. And some whiskey.”

  Her brain could only think of so many things at the same time, or one rather. As Padraig and Siofra carried the ham hock over to the microwave and Lorcan swaggered out of the kitchen, Fionnuala propped the iron upright on the board in the special place for it in the sitting room, went back into the kitchen and unearthed an ancient cookbook from the depths of a cupboard behind a tin of asparagus spears and a packet of plain sugar cookies nobody liked that she had forgotten were there. She flipped through, found a black and white photo of an appropriately grand wedding cake, grabbed a pencil from some crevice, licked the tip, then, on a greasy brown bag she found on the counter, she began to write the list of ingredients the children would have to buy. She was relieved she still had the money she had 'earned' from the Yank tourists. Hopefully it would pay for all the ingredients, plus the drink. She thought she heard a strange noise from upstairs, like the loft door being opened, but couldn't pause to consider it. She strained to understand the page before her.

  They were odd ingredients, but there were only three. Fionnuala was surprised. She had never baked in her life, but perhaps making a wedding cake was easier than she thought. Maybe making cakes would become a new and interesting hobby for her. She wrote down: 2lbs 4 oz white sugar paste icing, 1lb 2 oz yellow sugar paste, edible glue. Then underneath she read: These are the ingredients for the sugar flowers. Only the flimmin flowers? she thought What about the cake itself?

  She turned the page, the pings from the microwave and the kids' babbling voices unheard. She reeled. For the 12 inch tier, you will need 1 lb butter, 8 oz brown sugar, 5 oz caster sugar, 12 eggs, lightly beaten, 1 lb flour, 1 lb ground almonds, 2 tbsp cocoa powder, 1 tsp nutmeg, 1 tsp mixed spice, 1 tsp salt, 2 oranges, zest only, 2 lemons, zest only, 2 tsp vanilla essence, 1 lb currants, 1 lb glacé cherries, 12 oz sultanas, 8 oz dried cranberries, 1 lb dried apricots, chopped, 8 oz blanched whole almonds, roughly chopped, 12 fl oz brandy. For the 9 inch tier...

  She passed the other tiers and on the next page she read, her heart sinking, For this recipe you will need a 15cm/6in, 23cm/9in and 30cm/12in round cake tin, thin cake boards of respective sizes, and 38cm/15in, 35cm/14in and 23cm/9in thick cake boards. You will also need eight doweling rods and eight cake pillars and sugar paste flower molds All of these are available from specialist cake shops. Plus you will need a 3m/9ft 10in x 1.5cm/⅝in white satin ribbon.

  She quickly flipped the pages to a simpler cake and scanned the Ingredients: Butter, eggs, milk, 2 tsp hot water. Aye, aye, aye. She nodded eagerly. She had all that at home already, except the milk, so she moved on to the more exotic items, sugar, it said, but dark muscovado sugar...black treacle...ground ginger...desiccated coconut... Her brain couldn't keep up with what her eyes were reading: pistachios, soft apricots, carrots, peeled and grated, one pineapple, preferably unripe, one sweet potato, sliced thinly, one mango, 2 tbs limoncello, orange blossom water. She would also need cake boards and dowels, a mandolin, a mixer, mini pastry cutters, mini cupcake tin, a sugar thermometer, sugarcraft leaf cutters. She turned the page, then another. There were 33 steps.

  Fionnuala's brain was in shock. Regardless of the size of her teeth, she had bitten off more than she could chew. And what the bloody feck would she need a mandolin for? Was s
he meant to play music as the cake baked? She was about to fling the book the length of the kitchen when her eyes alighted on another recipe: BASIC CAKE. Flour, milk, salt, baking powder, butter, sugar, eggs and...the only exotic thing, vanilla extract. She scribbled down what they needed, added WHISKEY, underlined it, and added three exclamation points.

  “Ok, wanes, does that ham hock be defrosted yet?”

  “Almost, Mammy,” Siofra said.

  “Now I want ye to do the messages for me. I've got a list here. All three of youse go. And then we'll have ham hocks. And beans on toast with em.”

  When they came back laden with plastic carrier bags, she had folded up the ironing board, hung the gown proudly on the back of the kitchen door, and the ham hocks had another half an hour until they were done. Siofra marveled at the gown, tugging it this way and that to hear the fringes jangle and see the appliques sparkle, Padraig and Seamus were uninterested, and Fionnuala emptied out the dregs in her tea mug and filled it with whiskey. She gulped down. And gulped down again. She shuddered with delight as the warmth filled her.

  “Youse wanes!”

  Padraig, Siofra and Seamus jumped, looking guiltily at her, though they had done nothing wrong they could remember. They had even handed her back the change, and all of it. Though there wasn't much.

  “I've got a fun wee activity for youse for tomorrow. A wile craic, it's gonny be.”

  “Aye? What, Mammy?” Seamus asked, his little face shining with glee. Padraig and Siofra seemed less enthralled.

  “Youse're gonny make yer sister's wedding cake. That what ye bought today be's all the ingredients. Plus some butter what we've already got in the fridge, and the salt over there.”

  “But...” Padraig stared at her through his glasses. “How...?”

  Even Siofra looked worried.